Tides

When he goes to sleep, one of us has to lay down with him. When I do it, I curl myself around him in his little toddler bed. I fold my legs up and his tiny feet press up against the tops of my thighs.

Inevitably, he asks for me to put an arm out. He tucks himself into the crook of my arm, and snuggles up close.

And then it's a waiting game. Some days, he rolls back and forth. He tells me to switch sides in the bed, takes the pillow away from me dramatically, demands his snuggle blanket or a toy. He plays the covers/no covers game - "I want covers! No, I don't want covers. No, daddy, I want covers." He mumbles and chatters and jabbers and takes an hour to fall asleep.

And some nights, it's better.

Tonight was a good night. He lay with his face inches from mine and I could see his eyelids sinking slowly. He started humming "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" - sounding oddly like a saxophone. Short, crisp notes like Stan Getz.

He played with the covers for a few minutes and then he gave up. His heart wasn't in the game. And in a few minutes, I felt his weight sink into my shoulder. I lay for a minute, listening to him sleep. His body moved gently, almost imperceptibly, as he breathed in and out. I imagined him a tiny rowboat, rocking to a gentle unseen tide.